Jacob I Have Loved
by transemacabre
Summary: The death of Prussia, and the rise of GDR and Kaliningrad Oblast, set against the backdrop of the decline of the USSR and one very painful family drama. WARNING: Adult themes. Mpreg.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: _This is quite dark. Implications of forced and/or coerced sex. Mpreg (but with hermaphroditic anatomy permitting such). Parental abandonment/neglect. Character death. Russia does some terrible things in this fic, but I'd like to make it clear that this is set during one of his darkest periods and he is not in his right mind.

* * *

><p><em>Prologue<em>

Typically, Russia's new 'family members' would warm his bed for a few weeks or months, until he inevitably lost interest in them. Lithuania was the exception, as Russia loved him as much as he was capable of loving anyone, and would, from time to time, crawl into bed with him reeking of vodka and need.

Poland had been fun for awhile, as he completely lacked fear and would spit and bite and kick. But over time his anger wore down to mild distaste, and Russia left him alone. The Baltics all stank of fear, even his beloved Lithuania, which was why Russia had to be roaring drunk to even try. Even Hungary would close her eyes and wrap her legs around him when he visited her in the night, and although Russia could not prove it, he knew she was seeing her husband and not him.

But Prussia never lost his defiance; he would glare up at Russia with those demonic red eyes and snarl threats, grinning up at him with bloody teeth when Russia punished him, or whisper filthy things into his ear, inciting Russia to drive into him harder and harder, savaging Russia's cheek and shoulders with his teeth, so vicious that sometimes Russia wasn't sure who was being fucked and who was doing the fucking.

Russia came back to him, time and time again. Sometimes Prussia would mouth off to him during dinner, and Russia would drag him across the table, sending the Baltics scattering like leaves. Other times he would fall asleep curled around Prussia at night, stroking his hair affectionately, unaware of how Prussia stared at the wall, looking everywhere but at him.

But now - now Prussia's eyes were wide and dark-rimmed, his body growing thin, even as his belly swelled. Prussia was pregnant, and it seemed certain that this pregnancy would kill him. That was regrettable, Russia thought as he rubbed Prussia's belly, hoping to feel the life within move. He was not eager to see Prussia die.

"You fucking asshole," Prussia said, kicking Russia in the chest. "Let go of me! I'm going back to my brother!"

"Prussia is not going anywhere," Russia said sweetly, steel behind his words. "Prussia is being unreasonable. When the baby is born you will be feeling differently, da?"

"What the hell are you talking about," screamed Prussia, twisting in Russia's embrace, trying to escape. He did not - could not - acknowledge what had happened to him. He was sick, and he wanted to return to his brother, that was all. Russia was a sick, possessive freak who was always rambling about babies and punishment.

Russia ignored the nails digging into his arm as he pulled Prussia closer, forcing his head down onto Russia's chest. It was very much like trying to cuddle a spitting cat. "You must be eating more, moy kotionok. How will our child be growing when you are so weak and thin?"

"Fuck you," grumbled Prussia darkly.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter I<em>

When Prussia went into labor, he wasn't sure what had happened to him. There was a sharp pain in his belly, nothing he couldn't handle, and then a wetness between his legs. He crept to the bathroom and crouched down, sliding his hand between his thighs to touch that passage tucked away behind his male sexual organs. He rubbed the wetness he found there between his fingers, uncomprehending.

Nations were not humans nor gods, but something inbetween. Prussia knew that some of their kind were born hermaphroditic, possessing not only a penis and testes but also a birth canal, but lacking the labia and clitoris of a female. He also knew that some nations were capable of reproducing as either sex, but never in his life had this happened to him. He could no more face this than he could face dying here and never seeing his brother again.

He stumbled back to his room, determined to change into clean clothes, but once he stripped down to his underwear he collapsed into bed instead. Estonia would do his chores for him, he felt too sick and weak to work. Prussia's arms and legs felt like they were made of solid lead, and the piercing pains in his belly were increasing in frequency and severity. He felt like falling asleep and dreaming forever.

Sure enough, it was Estonia who came looking for him, after doing Prussia's share of the dishes and Prussia's share of the laundry. He knew it was useless to gripe at Prussia for leaving him to cover his share of the chores again, but he was grumpy and needed to vent - "Oh my god!" Estonia cried after he swung open the door to Prussia's bedroom. Prussia lay sprawled across the bed, the matress and sheets soaked in blood. Only the shallow rise and fall of his chest revealed that Prussia was even alive. Estonia rose a clenched fist to his mouth in horror, then turned and ran down the hall, shouting for help.

Russia swept out of nowhere like the Black Death, shoving his satellites aside and barricading himself inside of Prussia's room with him. The others gathered outside, Lithuania pressing his ear to the door, straining to hear what was going on inside. "I can hear Prussia moaning," he said softly.

"Oh, no," Hungary breathed. "Let me go," she said, trying to shake off Estonia's hand on her shoulder, "I have to rescue him, Russia's going to kill him in there-"

"There is no hope for Prussia," Estonia told her gently. "I saw the blood."

Hungary looked at him, horror-stricken. "We can't just let him die alone!"

"He's not alone," Lithuania said. "Russia's in there with him." He didn't say what they were all thinking, that none of them would want Russia's to be the last face they saw.

A shriek pierced the silence and gloom, and then all was quiet again. Hungary slumped to her knees, sobbing softly. Estonia grabbed Latvia and led him down the hall, his face grim. Finally, after more than an hour Hungary gave up hope and left, too. A part of her died along with Prussia in that room. Lithuania stayed to listen at the door. He heard a soft cry, high-pitched, the cry of a newborn. Hesitantly, he cracked the door open and peeked in.

Russia sat cross-legged on the floor, a bundle in his lap. He didn't even look up to acknowledge Lithuania's presence. "My baby girl," he crooned to the bundle. "My Anya, my Anya."

Lithuania looked to the bed, where he saw a blood-stained sheet covering Prussia. His blood ran cold like ice-water and he shuddered. He was about to turn and leave when he spied something wiggling under the sheet out of the corner of his eye. Lithuania crept forward and pulled back the sheet, revealing another baby, a boy, laying in the crook of Prussia's arm. The baby was too weak to cry and almost blue from cold. Horrified, Lithuania gathered him up.

Russia stood and walked for the door, holding his daughter to his chest. "Mr. Russia," Lithuania ran after him, "there's another baby-" as though Russia had somehow overlooked his son. Russia pushed past him, crooning to his daughter and brushing his lips to her forehead. Lithuania stared after him, then fetched a towel and wrapped Prussia's baby boy in it.

"What are you doing?" gasped Estonia when Lithuania let him into his room. From somewhere Lithuania had scavenged a bottle and some milk, and was trying to entice the newborn in his arms to drink.

"I have to get him to eat," Lithuania said urgently. "He'll die if he doesn't - I finally got him warmed up but if he won't drink-"

"You're rambling," Estonia cut in, sitting beside Lithuania on the bed. "And why do you have this baby? What happened?"

Lithuania looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, and with shock Estonia realized he'd been crying. "Russia left him to die with Prussia." He said every word like it was physically painful. "I don't know why. Prussia had twins. Russia took the little girl but he left the boy behind."

Estonia's face was hard as stone. "That's insane."

Lithuania turned his attention back to the baby. He couldn't say exactly why he was so desperate for Prussia and Russia's child to live - he had sympathy and at times affection for Russia, but that was smothered by his dread of him and his madness, and he had no reason in the world to care about Prussia's fate, not after Prussia had been one of those to forcibly seperate him and Poland centuries ago. But when he had seen the baby laying there, forgotten, ignored, unwanted, his heart went out to him. He couldn't leave him there to die. "Please drink," he whispered, touching the nipple to the baby's mouth. The baby turned his face away, his little eyes clenched shut.

"Let me see him," Estonia said, reaching for the baby. "You're not doing it right - I'll show you -" and he gathered Prussia's son into his arms and held his head just so, and sure enough, the baby took the bottle. Something wet ran down Lithuania cheek and into the corner of his mouth, and when he flicked out his tongue, he tasted salt and realized he'd begun crying.

The baby sucked eagerly and waved his tiny fists. Lithuania watched in wonder as Estonia finished feeding him, then put him on his shoulder, patted his back, and burped him expertly. "How do you know to do that?" he asked.

Estonia's eyes flickered between him and the baby. Lithuania had never seen him look so vulnerable before. His normally reserved expression had given way to one that was almost sorrowful. "When I was much younger," he said hesitantly, "when Denmark - I had a baby. Saaremaa. I did everything for her, I cared for her, I fed her. All on my own." He looked away, his way of indicating that he did not care to speak further. Instead, he stood and laid the baby on the bed, then fashioned a diaper for him from a cloth and some pins. Estonia then wrapped him snuggly in a blanket and laid him in Lithuania's arms.

Centuries of history and pain lingered between them, but anything Lithuania could think to say seemed meaningless or trite. So he settled for saying, "Thank you."

Estonia looked away shyly. "Here, let's fix him somewhere to sleep," he said, busying himself lining a basket with blankets and setting it between the heater and Lithuania's bed. Lithuania knelt and tucked the baby into its makeshift basinet. The little boy gazed up at him with unfocused eyes of newborn blue, then yawned to show his pink gums. A smile cracked across Lithuania's face.

Estonia cleared his throat. "If you would like, I could sleep in here tonight and help you with him."

"I would like that," Lithuania told him gratefully.

Lithuania wasn't sure what would happen when he had to venture out of his room the next morning. He couldn't leave Kaliningrad (he and Estonia had mutually agreed that the little boy was probably the personification of Prussia's grand old city) alone all day, but nor could he stay hidden away with him in his room, and he had no idea how Russia would react to seeing the baby. He tucked Kaliningrad into a makeshift sling that held him close and warm to Lithuania's body, and hoped for the best.

To his surprise and relief, no one saw much of Russia that day, nor the next, nor the day after that. Russia left his room to take his meals and do paperwork, but he no longer haunted the corridors of his house. His whole being seemed dedicated to being with the other baby, Anya, the German Democratic Republic.

Four days after Kaliningrad's birth, Lithuania was sweeping the stairs that led down to the cellar. He was humming a tuneless song under his breath (it would've been tuneful, but the only lullabies he knew were Lithuanian and he was afraid Russia would be angry if he caught him singing those), and every once in awhile he would straighten up, stretch his back, and peek down at Kaliningrad in his sling. Kaliningrad cooed to himself, half-asleep. _He's really a very good baby_, Lithuania thought as he went back to sweeping. _He only woke once or twice in the night whimpering. You wouldn't think Prussia and Russia would make such a sweet-tempered baby..._

He felt the temperature around him drop several degrees. His skin prickled with the cold. Slowly, Lithuania turned around and looked up to see Russia standing above him, blocking the entrance to the cellar door.

Lithuania froze. This was the first time Russia had been confronted with Kaliningrad since the night of his birth. He didn't know what to do and he didn't know how Russia would react. Was he angry to see Lithuania with the baby? He knew he couldn't let Russia hurt Kaliningrad, but he didn't know how to stop him, either. "Mr. Russia," he said, "it's good to see you."

Russia didn't reply for a long time, and Lithuania swallowed nervously. Finally, he stepped down, closer to Lithuania and Kaliningrad, the wooden step creaking under his weight. "Is it - good to see me?" asked Russia in a voice that made it clear he wasn't convinced by Lithuania's tone.

Unconsciously, Lithuania rested a hand over Kaliningrad's head, cradling his fragile skull and spine. "Of course it is, sir." Desperate to change the subject, he added quickly, "if you'll excuse me, I'll finish sweeping." His other hand raised the broom, putting a barrier between Russia and Kaliningrad.

"Nyet," Russia said, and Lithuania couldn't hide his flinch. "There is no excusing you. Come up and be fixing dinner, Lithuania."

Lithuania released a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding when Russia turned and walked away. Putting aside his broom and dust-pan, he mounted the steps and walked to the kitchen. When he made it, he slumped against the counter, sucking in deep breaths. Kaliningrad had survived his second encounter with his father.

The months passed, and against all odds, they settled into a routine. Hungary went back to her own house, leaving the Baltics alone with Russia and the little ones. Estonia and Lithuania were usually up well before dawn, sewing and cleaning and cooking, balancing ledgers and trying to avoid Russia's stormy moods. Latvia helped them, but he didn't like taking care of Kaliningrad; Lithuania thought he didn't like being around something that reminded him of Prussia's dark fate, but Estonia suspected Latvia was simply uncomfortable with babies.

Even as they fell into the rhythm of washing and baking, the world around them crackled with tension. Hungary and Poland's failed revolutions that revealed that all was not well with their happy communist brotherhood. Russia and China's relationship was fraying. Cuba came around to their side, giving the USSR an important ally on America's doorstep. And in the middle of it all, America had another baby: Number Forty-Nine, a bouncing purple-eyed boy. There wasn't much mystery who the father was, and Estonia wondered when it would be enough for Russia. Didn't he know that children were not just wells of love and fulfillment? They became your weakness, something treasured that could be torn from your arms, locked away, threatened. Micronations and provinces and territories and states often died, or were stolen by other nations, or faded away. Sometimes they grew into behemoths that overshadowed their caretakers, who looked upon the giants they had raised like puzzled birds who found they'd hatched a cuckoo.

Estonia looked at Lithuania, who was already forgetting what life had been like before Kaliningrad, and worried for him.

Kaliningrad grew a head full of pale blonde hair, and his eyes changed from watery newborn blue to an unnatural violet color. His twin GDR turned out to be an albino like Prussia. Russia dressed her in beautiful handmade outfits of lace, decorated her silvery hair with bows, and paraded her about like a doll. Estonia looked on sadly. He couldn't guess at what bizarre psychology made Russia adore his girl-child and ignore the boy-child's very existence, but he found it strange and unsettling.

One day, Russia got off the phone with China, took a bottle of vodka, and locked himself in his study. Lithuania made sure GDR was safely asleep in her crib, then took Kaliningrad into the kitchen to enjoy a rare afternoon of peace and quiet with the other Baltics. Latvia and Estonia made pie crusts while Lithuania sat Kaliningrad on the counter-top and played peek-a-boo with him for 15 minutes, simply because Kaliningrad squealed with delight every time Lithuania peeked out at him from behind his hands.

Estonia wiped his brow, unwittingly leaving flour on his forehead and in his hair. "Be careful, Tolys."

Lithuania made a face at Kaliningrad, who laughed and clapped his hands. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Estonia grabbed a rag and began wiping down the counter. "He could be taken from you at any time," he said, not unkindly. "I just don't want to see you hurt."

Lithuania gathered Kaliningrad in his arms and rested his chin atop the baby's head thoughtfully. "I know," he said at last. "But its too late for that, now. What sort of life will he have, growing up here, if we keep him at arm's length for fear of being hurt?"

"W-w-what sort of l-l-life will he have anyway?" Latvia asked in a voice so low it almost couldn't be called a voice at all.

Kaliningrad, oblivious to the adults' discussion, reached up and gave Lithuania a sloppy kiss on his cheek. He had figured out that when Lithuania pressed his lips to Kaliningrad's cheek, it meant he was wanted and loved. So he decided to return the favor.

Lithuania gasped in surprise and looked down at Kaliningrad, and when Estonia saw the contented, fond look on Lithuania's face, he could've wept for him.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter II<em>

Kaliningrad whimpered as he was shaken awake. He wiggled up to poke his face out from under the blankets, where he had been sleeping safe and warm next to Lithuania. Forcing his heavy eyelids open, he looked up to see a figure taller than the mountains and twice as imposing. Mr. Russia stared down at them, his breath frosting in the moonlight streaming through the window.

Lithuania sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Fricu," he whispered, using Kaliningrad's human nickname. "Fricu, go down the hall and stay with Estonia for tonight."

Kaliningrad wanted to kick his legs and cry, but that would make Lithuania sad, so he didn't. He slid off the bed and toddled out the door into the night's chill air. The hall seemed to go on forever, a vast dark emptiness, and Kaliningrad stopped and looked behind him, wishing he could sneak back into Lithuania's room. Lithuania had warned him not to come back before dawn on nights that Mr. Russia stayed with him, so Kaliningrad didn't dare to go back. He wiped at his hot face and wet eyes.

Estonia awoke at the sound of Kaliningrad's first weak whimpers. He put on his glasses and peered out of his door, blinking with sleep. Kaliningrad stood in the middle of the hall in his stocking feet, skin prickled with cold, bravely trying to choke back sobs.

Estonia sighed and picked him up. "Shh, it's all right."

Kaliningrad clutched at his nightshirt. Estonia carried him into his bedroom and tucked him into his bed. Kaliningrad turned his face away, trying to hide the miserable look on his face. He liked Estonia, but his blankets smelled different and the shadows in his room were all wrong and he didn't murmur in Lithuanian in his sleep.

Estonia took off his glasses, folded them, and laid them on the bedside table. Then he laid down beside Kaliningrad, his larger bulk warming the little boy. Estonia could make out faint cries down the hall; Lithuania must've held back until he felt sure Kaliningrad was out of earshot.

Kaliningrad said in a soft little voice, "I miss Liet." Then he clenched his eyes shut, hoping that Estonia wouldn't be cross with him.

"He misses you too, Frydrichas," Estonia told him gently. He hoped desperately that the sound of his breathing and his heartbeat covered up the sound from down the hall. Hesitantly, he curled an arm around Kaliningrad and pressed him to his chest. After a few moments, Estonia felt two little wet spots on his nightshirt.

"'m sorry," mumbled Kaliningrad.

"There is nothing to be sorry about," Estonia said, patting the boy's pale hair. He laid very still and waited for Kaliningrad's breathing to even out, the tell-tale sign that he was asleep. He closed his eyes and prayed that he wouldn't dream about the nights when his own daughter had slept next to him like this, with his fingers tangled in her blonde hair.

* * *

><p>Lithuania scrubbed Kaliningrad's face with a wet washrag until his skin shown. He even got behind his ears although that made Kaliningrad squeal and try to involuntarily tuck his chin to his shoulder.<p>

"That's cold!"

"I know," Lithuania said, giving him a quick kiss on the forehead for being such a good boy. He wet his hands and used them to slick back Kaliningrad's hair. "Now, hold still." He pulled a pair of scissors from his bag.

Instantly, Kaliningrad scrambled backward, pushing away Lithuania's hands. "No, no, no!" he chanted, his eyes wide and pleading. Shocked, Lithuania did not pursue him. Kaliningrad had never acted like this before. Did he think Lithuania meant to hurt him?

"I'm just going to cut your hair," Lithuania said, brushing at Kaliningrad's shaggy locks with his free hand.

Kaliningrad shook his head frantically. "No, please!"

"But it's too long," Lithuania told him, stepping forward again even as Kaliningrad backed up. "Why are you acting like this, Fricu?"

"Because I want to look more like you!" Kaliningrad blurted out. When he saw the thunderstruck look on Lithuania's face, he dropped his head in shame.

"Oh. Oh, Fricu," Lithuania said softly. His mind whirled in a thousand directions at once, spiraling down like Icarus into the ocean. He laid down the scissors and sat down next to Kaliningrad. Both pulled their legs up to their chests and rested their chins on their knees. Lithuania watched Kaliningrad out of the corner of his eye. The boy's troubled purple eyes peeked out from under a fringe of pale blond hair.

"I know-" Kaliningrad cut himself off. "I know I'm not your son, really. But I want to look just like you and be just like you." His face reddened (the boy never could hide an emotion to save his life). Kaliningrad's coloring was so like Russia's, but his facial features were sharper, and when he smiled he looked so like Prussia that it took Lithuania aback the first few times. He wasn't sure why he had decided to name Kaliningrad after Prussia's old king Frederick, other than a vague belief that Prussia would've wanted it that way. He used the Lithuanian variant Frydrichas though, out of his own preference.

Lithuania inhaled deeply and then breathed it out. "If you don't want your hair cut, we can leave it long," he said. "But I want you to know that I love you just the way you are." He tapped at Kaliningrad's chin. "I love your face, and I love your eyes, and I love your smile. I would not want to change any of them."

"Really?"

"Really." Lithuania stood up and offered a hand. Kaliningrad hesitated but took it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. "Now, let's brush our teeth and get ready for bed."

* * *

><p>Kaliningrad was an obediant boy, it was true. So he never went anywhere Lithuania warned him not to go - but then, Lithuania had never specifically <em>said<em> he couldn't go into Mr. Russia's library. He'd never said Kaliningrad could, either, but Kaliningrad cheerfully ignored that part as he trotted down the hall on quiet cat-feet.

Mr. Russia had left for a meeting and wouldn't be back for hours, but he expected the house to be clean when he returned, so the three Baltics were hard at work downstairs. Lithuania had told Kaliningrad to sit quietly and be a good boy and not get in their way (the last time Kaliningrad tried to help clean he'd accidently dumped wax all over the floor and caused a great big mess). But after picking up the bedroom and dusting every surface he could reach with a feather-duster, Kaliningrad had collapsed in a sweaty, bored heap on the floor. Without the Baltics around there was nothing _to do_. There were no new books to read other than Latvia's romance novels, and Lithuania had forbidden him from reading those because they were too 'racy'. Kaliningrad wasn't sure what 'racy' meant except it sounded exciting.

So he'd set off in quest of new reading material. Kaliningrad knew Mr. Russia had a library, because he'd helped Lithuania scrub the floors once. Lithuania had even let him slide across the slick, shiny floors after they were done so long as he'd kept quiet so Mr. Russia wouldn't find out. When he saw the tall doors at the end of the hall, Kaliningrad felt a chill go through his body. He even looked around guitily, as though Lithuania might appear and scold him for wandering off. But he reached up and pushed, and the doors swung open.

Mr. Russia's library smelled like old paper and ink, and below that, the puzzling smell of something that had been burnt a long time ago. Kaliningrad turned in circles, staring up at the tall stacks. He wondered where Mr. Russia would keep books little boys would like.

"Ahem!"

Kaliningrad whirled around to see a little girl peering at him from behind a perilously leaning stack of books. "Oh, it's just you," she said in a soft, breathy voice. "I've seen you before."

Kaliningrad breathed a sigh of relief. "I've seen you, too," he said. "You're Anya." He'd seen her at breakfasts and dinners mostly, although Mr. Russia sometimes carried her around the house on his shoulders. He'd never spoken to her before.

"I'm the German Democratic Republic," the girl said imperiously. "My father is the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic."

"That's a lot of names," Kaliningrad commented.

GDR tipped her head to the side, pondering. "Well, he's a very big man so I suppose he needs a big name." She stood up, brushed off her fancy lace dress, and walked over to him. This close, Kaliningrad could see that her hair and eyebrows were nearly white, and her eyes-

"Your eyes are red!" he blurted out.

She flipped her hair over one shoulder. "My Nana says my eyes are special. Red is his favorite color. Would you like to see someone else with red eyes?"

"Where are we going?" Kaliningrad asked GDR as she led him through the winding towers of books.

GDR turned to him. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course!"

GDR felt along the wall, her fingers searching for something. "My Nana doesn't know that I know about this. So you have to promise me you'll keep it a secret."

"I promise," he said solemnly.

She must've found what she was looking for, because a small section of the wall flipped over, revealing a small passageway. GDR raised her finger to her lips, signaling for him to be silent, and then climbed in. Kaliningrad glanced behind him, then followed her. The passageway was big enough for him to stand up if he ducked his head. The path was so winding that he wondered if even GDR knew her way, but after a couple of minutes she stopped, pushed at the wall, and then climbed out.

Kaliningrad stepped out after her into a vast and cold room. Dark drapes covered the windows and blocked out the sun. GDR lit a candle, casting shadows across a giant four poster bed and marble floors slick as ice. Kaliningrad shivered.

GDR walked over to the wall and caught hold of a velvet rope. "Watch this," she whispered, and tugged. Velvet drapes drew back to reveal a life-sized portrait mounted on the wall of a man in a dark blue uniform. Kaliningrad tipped his head back to stare up at him. The man wore a skull-and-crossbones on his hat and held a sabre in his hand. His face was handsome but cruel, and his eyes were blood red. "Who is he?" breathed Kaliningrad.

GDR smiled proudly. "He's my mother," she said. "My Nana told me he was the great nation of Prussia. He died having me but he watches me from heaven every day."

"There's no such thing as heaven," said Kaliningrad. He'd been taught that heaven was something made up so that peasants would allow themselves to be exploited in hopes of an eternal reward.

Now GDR's face darkened with anger. "There is so! And he's there and he watches over me. My Nana told me so."

Kaliningrad decided not to argue with her about it. "I wish he hadn't died," he said.

GDR's anger melted into something more pensive. "Me, too." She tugged on the rope, covering the portrait.

Kaliningrad shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Why did you sneak into the library? Do you like to read?" he asked her.

"I like poetry," GDR said, tugging at the bow in her hair. "I'm making up a poem of my own, wanna hear? It goes, _the world is my casket, I shall not want..._"

Kaliningrad raised his eyebrows. "That's creepy!"

GDR gave him another of her withering glares. "The best poetry is always creepy! Or about dying in battle." She narrowed her eyes. "Why were you in the library?"

"I was looking for something good to read," Kaliningrad told her. "Something about adventure, or pirates..."

"I have a book about pirates!" GDR blurted out. "It's in English, but you can look at it if you want." She ran over to a little shelf, and pulled out a book. On the cover it said _Treasure Island_.

Kaliningrad accepted it gratefully. "But you have to give it back to me when you're done," GDR said. "My Nana gave it to me." A clock chimed on the wall and she startled a little. "Hurry up, c'mon! I have to take you back before he gets home!" She opened the secret passageway on the wall and climbed in.

"When's that?" Kaliningrad asked, climbing into the passageway after her.

"Right now!"

GDR led Kaliningrad back the way they'd came, and as soon as he was safely in the library, she turned and scrambled back down the passage towards her room. Even as she tumbled out into her room, GDR could hear Nana's footsteps down the hall. She darted across the floor on her tiptoes. As she leapt up onto the bed, she could hear Nana's key turning in the lock. GDR burrowed into the quilts, draping her hair across the pillow, and closed her eyes. The door creaked as it swung open. GDR willed her breathing to be even.

Russia's coat rustled as he strod toward the bed. He brushed his hand against her forehead, and GDR murmured softly, as though asleep. He leaned over her and tenderly kissed her, once on each eyelid. GDR could smell the faint scent of Nana's medicine, an acrid smell she despised. Sometimes, Nana locked himself in his study and drank medicine for hours. Then he would crash onto the couch and sleep as if dead, and not even GDR's crying would rouse him. The only nightmares GDR ever had were about her Nana not awakening from his stupor.

She lay limp and still until she heard Nana close the door behind him. Cracking one eye open, GDR sat up and kicked the covers off her legs. "See that?" she asked the covered portrait of Prussia. "I was real convincing, wasn't it?"

She wriggled down from the bed, and dug around in her bookshelf until she found her favorite book, The Iliad. GDR didn't understand all of it yet, but the parts about the swords and Achilles and seiges and glorious deaths were dog-eared. She couldn't wait until she was old enough to lead troops into battle! She'd told her Nana so once, only for him to tell her that she was much too little. GDR had stomped her feet and said, "But I want to be the next Prussia!"

Her Nana had replied, "I would rather you be the next Russia."

GDR pouted as she opened the book to her favorite part, where Achilles kills Hector and Priam comes to beg for his son's body. She didn't like it when Nana said strange things like that. His moods changed like the weather, and even she didn't know what would enrage him. GDR dearly wished to ask him to let her play with Kaliningrad, but she knew if Nana found out they'd met today, that both she and Kaliningrad would be in big, big trouble.

She propped herself up on one elbow as she began to read, losing herself in a world where she was as strong as her sword-arm, and even gods fell before her might.

* * *

><p>Kaliningrad wanted to read the book GDR had lent him, but he didn't dare read it in front of Lithuania; that would lead to questions, and he couldn't lie to Lithuania. So he hid it under the mattress of the bed he shared with Lithuania, to be read later when he was alone.<p>

That night, tucked in bed next to his guardian, Kaliningrad almost wiggled with excitement. It was not only the book, but the knowledge that he had, if not a friend, then a comrade in this house, someone as young as himself, someone who's entire world was this cold, creaky old house. He had to purposefully lay still, listening to the steady rise and fall of Lithuania's breathing, to calm himself enough to sleep.

Sleep stole him away like a thief. Kaliningrad was running down an endless hall, when a sound like the world cracking in two shook him down to his bones. He wrenched open the first door he came to and stepped through onto a -

- battlefield, and it was the firing of a canon that left him shaken, and blood fell from the sky like tears, or rain -

- and when he turned Kaliningrad could see a tall figure striding confidently through the crush of fighting men, soaked by the blood-rain, sword at his hip, his eyes burning red red red, _and his face, oh, his face is like mine_ thought Kaliningrad -

- _and like mine_ said GDR, and he looked up to see her standing before him in a blood-splattered lace gown, skull-and-crossbones upon her chest, and when he looked down Kaliningrad saw the hammer-and-sickle adoring his chest -

The hushed sound of the window opening woke him. Kaliningrad's eyes shot open. He could hear someone scrabbling outside, then a rustle as they climbed through the window. He could feel Lithuania tensing next to him as he too awoke. But in the darkness neither could see anyone.

"Liet?" The voice murmured into the stillness. "God, Liet, are you, like, even alive over there?"

"Feliks?" Lithuania sat up in bed, gropping for the candle and matches on the bedside table. "Is that you?"

"Like, who else would it be?" The bed dipped as the stranger perched on the edge. Instinctively, Kaliningrad hid under the blankets as Lithuania struck a match and lit the candle, illuminating the room.

"Feliks, you can't stay here. If Mr. Russia finds out you're here-"

"Ah, Ivan can kiss my ass. He's already tried all his dirty tricks on me, Liet, he knows he can't break me. I'm like, too much for him."

Kaliningrad peeked out to see the stranger face-to-face with Lithuania, so close their breaths mingled, so close their eyelashes could almost brush. The stranger had golden hair and kind-looking green eyes. Those green eyes flickered over to Kaliningrad as he poked his head out from the blankets. "Oh my god, Liet," breathed the stranger, Feliks. "A kid? Is he...?"

"No," whispered Lithuania. "Look closer."

Feliks reached over and gently pulled the blankets away from Kaliningrad's face. A half-smile touched his lips as he took in Kaliningrad's pale hair, his violet eyes, his sharp features. "Oh," Feliks said after a moment. "I see. Wow. So that's what happened to Pru-"

"Feliks," Lithuania said in a soft but unmistakeably warning tone.

"Whatever," Feliks said flippantly. He shot Lithuania a sly look. "As long as you don't, like, try to marry him when he grows up."

Lithuania grinned lopsidedly at that. "I'm not _England_, Feliks," he said. Then, quickly, "You have to go. Now."

Feliks stood up, tossed a cloak over his shoulder, and climbed into the window. Before he left, he said, "It won't be like this for long, Liet. You don't even know it yet, but Ivan's going down like cheap vodka. Burning and unwilling. I'll be seeing you soon." He winked at Kaliningrad. "Both of you."

And then he was gone.

* * *

><p>Lithuania hummed quietly to himself as he washed dishes. Next to him, Kaliningrad perched on a footstool, wiping the dishes dry with a cloth as quickly as Lithuania could wash them. Lithuania watched him fondly. Soon, Kaliningrad would be tall enough that he wouldn't need a footstool; his long arms and legs promised as much. GDR, with her exotic hair and eyes, was undoubtably the beauty of the pair, resembling no one so much as her aunt Belarus, but Kaliningrad would grow into a handsome man, too. He'd inherited Prussia's aristocratic features, but fortunately lacked what Poland had always called Prussia's "smug bitchface."<p>

Heavy footsteps heralded Russia's arrival. Smoothly, Lithuania finished the last dish, then leaned over and murmured in Kaliningrad's ear, "Fricu, go outside and play, all right?" Wordlessly, Kaliningrad nodded, and turned to jump down.

Russia brushed past Lithuania on his way to the table, and as he did so, he had the rare misfortune to collide with Kaliningrad as the boy tried to scramble out of his way. Lithuania reached out to grab him, too late. Kaliningrad went sprawling, and as he did a book fell from his back pocket and slid across the floor. Russia rumbled with anger, and then went shock-still.

The book was one Lithuania had never seen before, _Treasure Island_. Russia's gaze shifted from it, and then to Kaliningrad. Something passed which Lithuania instinctively recognized as the calm before a storm.

The next few seconds were a blur. Russia roared. Lithuania lept between Russia and Kaliningrad, deflecting a blow that would've broken Kaliningrad's jaw, if not his neck. Kaliningrad screamed as Russia's hand raked at him. Lithuania pushed his ward into the cabinet, then turned and braced himself across the door, prepared to defend the boy with his life.

A moment passed, and no attack came. Instead, Russia stooped to pick up the book and clutch it to his chest. He looked up at Lithuania with something between shock and sorrow. "My sister hid Belarus and I in a cabinet when the Mongols attacked," he said softly. He brushed a hand through his hair, lost in his memories. "I held Belarus close to me to muffle her crying. We could hear Sister screaming when the Mongols broke into our house. I d-don't know..." He wiped at his face furiously before continuing. "...if she was screaming in pain, or to cover up the sound of our crying so the Mongols wouldn't find us." His eyes screwed up and he stumbled from the kitchen, book dangling fron one hand.

After Lithuania was sure he was safely gone, he pulled Kaliningrad out of the cabinet, clutched the boy to his chest, and sobbed into his neck. Kaliningrad kept repeating, "I'm sorry, Liet, I'm so sorry, I didn't steal the book, she lent it to me, I'm sorry..."

Lithuania and Estonia hid him in the attic for the next week, bringing him food and blankets whenever they could slip away from their chores. They needn't have bothered. Russia locked himself and GDR in their bedroom for three days, then emerged only to leave for almost two weeks on some nebulous "important meeting". When he showed back up, Russia acted as if nothing had ever happened.

When Kaliningrad finally dared to leave the attic, he curled up with his head in Lithuania's lap, while his guardian gently stroked his hair. "Russia is my real father, isn't he?" Kaliningrad asked.

Lithuania's hand trembled a little. "Yes."

"And GDR, she's my sister, isn't she? Does that make Prussia my other parent?" He contorted to look up at Lithuania, who nodded.

"What was he like?" Kaliningrad asked. He bit his lip anxiously. "Prussia, I mean. You knew him, right?"

"I did," admitted Lithunia. He took a deep breath, considering what he could tell Kaliningrad that wouldn't terrify the boy even further. _I held a knife to his throat. He forcibly seperated Poland and myself, and laughed about it. He was a religious fanatic. He was a hopeless romantic_. "Prussia was a brave warrior," he said. "He could be a cruel man, sometimes. He loved his brother. He was proud. I suppose he was no more or less flawed that any other Nation."

Kaliningrad narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. "Except for Russia. Russia is a monster."

"Russia," Lithuania sighed, "is broken."


	2. Chapter 2

"Say his name," his daughter implored.

Russia stroked her long hair back from her face, staring into her piercing red eyes. "My Anya is weary," he told her. "She needs her rest."

Anya tried to jerk away from his touch. "There is nothing wrong with me! Why won't you even say his name? Why can't you acknowledge his existence?"

He sighed heavily. His daughter was his delight, but her insistence on bringing up The Other into every conversation was tiring him. Russia had thought, at first, that Anya would forget about it. He'd looked forward to the day when her mind turned to other things, more appropriate things. But the weeks passed, and weeks became months, and his refusal to acknowledge The Other only enraged Anya, making her, if anything, more passionate about her cause.

"Say his name!"

"There is nothing to say." Russia guided her towards the bed, taking hold of her elbow more forcefully than was strictly neccesary. "It is time for bed, my Anya."

"Does a name frighten you?" Anya sneered at him, an ugly expression contorting her beautiful features. "Does a mere word make you tremble, Nana? He is only a boy!"

"That is enough," Russia warned her.

Anya dug in her heels, pulling away from him. Russia tightened his grip and pulled back, but was taken aback by her surprising strength; his daughter would not be easily moved. "I know the truth!" Anya shouted, bracing herself, pulling away with all her might. A flash of bone, as she beared her teeth. Her eyes narrowed into slits. "He looks just like you! He's your son, isn't he? What kind of father would hate his own son?"

"Silence," Russia told her.

"Kaliningrad!" Anya threw back her head and shouted his name. "Fricu!" All his names. "Brother!"

"SILENCE!" Russia's scream almost shook the entire house. Anya reeled back, as though struck. She crooned softly, and Russia watched with growing horror as a bloodstain spread across her blouse, as though his angry words had pierced her heart.

Anya slumped to the floor, clutching at the delicate embroidery over her heart. Her fingers came away tinged blood-red. "Nana?" she asked wonderingly.

Russia ripped her blouse open, revealing unmarred porcelin skin. He searched frantically, but could find no mark upon her, no visible sign of injury. Her heartbeat fluttered under his fingers like the beating of a bird's wings. "How, how?" he repeated to himself.

"My people," breathed Anya. She looked up at him, comprehending now. Somewhere, far away, but not far enough, one of her young men lay prone in the shadow of a Wall, bleeding out his life into the dirt, while his friends looked on, too afraid of the machineguns to dare save him. She moaned low, her eyes rolling back into her head in horror.

Russia gathered his daughter into his arms, stripped her of her bloody clothes, and laid her into a warm bath until she was clean of the bloodstain. He lifted her, warm and wet, and wrapped her in towels, carefully patting her dry. He lay her in bed, then stoked the fire in the grate until it roared, and pitched her ruined clothes into the inferno. The ash floated up the chimney, far away. Out of sight. Out of mind.

"All will be all right," Russia promised his daughter, kissing her forehead.

Her eyes fluttered open. "No," she said. "Nothing will be all right ever again." And she rolled over and turned her back to him.

Kaliningrad had never lived in a home that was not built, brick by brick, by Russia's hands. He'd never slept in a bed that was not ringed by concrete and barbed wire, or lived a day in a world that was not as red as the blood pulsing through his veins.

So when the Wall began to fall, when Russia's power began to crumble, when Communism rotted from within, it all came crashing down brick by brick.

It was Azerbaijan who began it all, Turkey's petite, dark-haired little sister, when she spat in Russia's face and received a split lip for her trouble. After that, everywhere Russia turned, another of his 'family' pulled farther away. Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia. Even his sisters, until Russia was left with only the ghost warmth of their hands in his.

One day, Poland and Hungary came to the door. Poland slung an arm across Kaliningrad's shoulders, holding him close, while Hungary went to the landing of the stairs and called out, "Anya! Anya!"

A slam, and a great crashing sound, like books being flung to the floor, and then GDR appeared at the top of the stairs. Russia loomed over her, his hands on her shoulders. "It is not safe for you out there."

"I can't stay here forever, Nana," said GDR.

"I won't be letting you go."

"You can't stop me," GDR told him. She gently removed each of his hands from her shoulders. "My people need me. It's time for me to go."

As she turned to step down, Russia, great Russia, sank to his knees, as though mortally wounded. He held out his hand to her, silently beseeching her not to leave. GDR caught hold of his hand and raised to her lips, kissing his knuckles. "I'm not doing this to hurt you, Nana," she whispered. She lowered his hand, then walked down the stairs to where Hungary was waiting for her. If Hungary saw in her the daughter she and Prussia might've had, she did not betray herself. She linked arms with GDR, and the two women left the house together.

Kaliningrad leaned against Poland and watched as the Baltics packed their bags silently. He could feel the electric thrill of the world changing around him, restructuring itself, redrawing borders, redefining terms and treaties. Lithuania glanced over and smiled at him, ruffling his hair like he used to when Kaliningrad was a little boy; Kaliningrad was no longer so little.

"Are you nervous?" Kaliningrad asked him.

Lithuania thought over that for a moment. "Yes," he said. "But it's a good nervous. I don't know what tomorrow will bring - but I'm ready for it."

Estonia stood, suitcase in hand, and walked over to them. He and Lithuania locked eyes, communicating in their unspoken way, and then he clasped Kaliningrad's shoulder and said, "I will see you soon, Fricu." Then he turned and walked out of the house, with Latvia trailing after him.

Kaliningrad caught a glimpse of a young girl with long blonde hair running towards Estonia with her arms spread wide, before Russia slammed the door shut behind the two Baltics. "Stop this, Lithuania," he rasped. He wore dark circles under his eyes and a haunted expression.

Lithuania stood up straight. Beside him, Kaliningrad and Poland stared at Russia, purple eyes watching him warily, green eyes watching him scornfully. Finally, Lithuania spoke. "Sir, you can't give me orders anymore." Russia stood aside and watched as Poland and Lithuania walked out of the house, Kaliningrad between them, to join Hungary and GDR.

The five walked down the path a long way until the snowflakes began to fall and they shivered in the cold. At last they came to a fork in the road, where the three elder nations paused and stepped away from the twins.

"This is as far as we can take you," Hungary said, brushing a stray strand of silvery hair back from GDR's face.

"You have to go the rest of the way on your own," Lithuania explained, pulling Kaliningrad into an embrace.

"But we'll totally be waiting for you when you get back," Poland vowed. He was the only one smiling. Hungary looked proud but stoic, while Lithuania's face twisted with sorrow.

"But how will we know when we get there?" asked Kaliningrad. Lithuania could feel the boy's heart pounding wildly, and in response he could only cling to Kaliningrad even more tightly.

"There's someone waiting to see you," Lithuania told him, releasing his grip on his ward reluctantly. He stepped back, wiping at his face with his sleeve. His voice cracked. "He's been waiting... a long time for the two of you."

Hungary kissed GDR on the forehead. "You'll know what to do when you see him."

The twins seemed to draw simultaneous deep breaths. After a moment they turned and headed off down the path on their own, waving as they went, their faces pale but hopeful. Lithuania kept waving until he couldn't see them anymore, and only then did he collapse into a heap, grabbing great handfuls of dirt, sucking in a deep breath and letting out a moan.

"One of them... isn't going to come back," he sobbed as Poland helped him back up. Hungary just turned away, letting the wind whip at her hair and hide her face.

"I d-didn't know it would be so _painful_," Lithuania told Poland even as he stumbled back to his feet. Poland tenderly brushed earth and tears from his cheeks. "I can't wish for Anya to die so that Fricu can live, but," Lithuania gasped, clutching at Poland. "I can't bear to see him die! I can't! I held him in my arms when he was newly born."

With a great cry, Hungary grabbed a clod of frozen dirt and flung it at a tree so that it exploded. "Damn it!" she screamed until her throat was raw. "I wish - I almost wish they hadn't been-" and she too fell to weeping, red-faced and angry, more rage than grief.

The sun burned on the horizon. Poland held Lithuania and kept watch on Hungary, and they waited. There was nothing else to be done.

* * *

><p>They could hear the sounds of wild jubilation as they neared the city, the roar of heavy machinery, and a sound like the world breaking in two, the sound of the Wall falling and the world being remade.<p>

GDR looked at Kaliningrad and said, partly from nervousness, but mostly from the need to say it before they ran out of time to say anything, "I'm sorry about what happened to you. I don't know why Nana did what he did, but you didn't deserve it. If there's some way I can make it right, tell me."

Kaliningrad exhaled, his breath like smoke. "There's nothing - it wasn't your fault - anyway, I never knew anything different."

"Doesn't make it right."

Kaliningrad looked at his feet. Although in his coloring he was so like her Nana, and in his features he was Prussia come again, GDR could see Lithuania's influence in the way he held himself, his shy smiles, even in his shoulder-length hair. That made Nana's behavior all the more perplexing, for he loved Lithuania but had not a moment's consideration for Kaliningrad. A storm warred in GDR, emotions as disparate as resentment and affection, adoration and confusion, bloodlust and sisterly love, competing for supremacy. Perhaps if she lived a thousand years, she would make some sense of it all. Or perhaps there was no sense to any of this tragedy.

GDR stumbled in the path, and her heart skipped a beat. She clutched at her chest, hoping Kaliningrad didn't notice her moment of weakness. He paused to catch her by the elbow, and she smiled. "Tripped on a rock," she said airily, willing her heart to beat in time. "Silly me."

Kaliningrad stuttered out something, then caught himself, took a deep breath, and tried again. "I'm glad you're here with me." He hesitated. "Sister."

GDR clasped hands with him. "There's no one I would rather walk this path with, brother." She felt sure that if Prussia had lived to see them grow, that he would've felt, if not love, then pride at Kaliningrad's resilience and GDR's determination to be the master of her fate.

For the first time since the day of their birth, they forged ahead together towards the future.

* * *

><p>Germany climbed through the break in the Wall, over crumbling concrete and mortar, past wide-eyed guards and old men relearning the faces of long-lost friends. Some of his people turned in circles, overcome with emotion. Others stared with red-rimmed eyes, hiccuping from time to time, clutching a lost sister or child or neighbor to them. And Germany himself walked amongst them, peering over the tops of their heads, seeking a glimpse of white hair or of preternaturally blood-red eyes.<p>

He had imagined this day many times, and exactly what his brother would look like walking towards him: Prussia would be bruised, of course, perhaps even bloody, but he would be smiling his wolf's smile that bared all his teeth. He would stand tall as ever, and he would slap Germany across the back and pull him tight to him. They would step over the barbed wire and concrete and walk away from the Wall, and then they would forget about it and never think of it again.

The crowd parted before him as the humans instinctively sensed something different about the newcomers, and there before him stood not his brother Prussia, but two young people. No, not people, but like _him_ - Nations. Germany looked, and then he knew. He _knew_.

Looking at the young man was like looking into the face of his brother many mortal lifetimes ago, when canons had ruled the battlefield and Prussia's generals had been the pride of their nation. But the young man looked at him with pale purple eyes that were nothing like Prussia's.

The girl was delicately beautiful, with cupid's bow lips and silvery hair that fell to her waist. Her red, red eyes flickered back and forth, taking in the Wall, the people, and finally Germany himself. She began to speak to him, and then seemed to think better of it.

Germany reeled backwards until he could grasp hold of a still-standing section of the Wall and lean his weight on it. He sucked in air in little gasps. His eyes prickled.

One of his own people caught him by the elbow and helped him stand up. "Are you all right, friend?" asked the man, who looked to be in his sixties and was giving Germany a sympathetic, fatherly look.

"My brother-" he had to say it, he _had_ to say it, "- is dead. My brother has been dead," he swallowed hard, "for many years."

The warmth of the man's hand on his shoulder seemed to be the only real thing in the world. "I'm sorry for you," the man told him. "I lost my brother, as well. We are as one in loss."

Germany drew a deep shakey breath, then straightened himself. "Thank you," he said. He wanted to say something meaningful, something about loss and death and grief, but he could think of nothing to say that could express the enormity of what he felt, so he settled for a deep nod of the head. The human nodded back, and something passed between them very much like understanding. Germany then turned towards the two young people (his niece and nephew, mein Gott, _Prussia's children_) and said, "Welcome. I-I am your uncle."

The twins said nothing for some moments. At last, realizing Kaliningrad was too thunderstruck to respond, GDR raised her chin and said, "I am the German Democratic Republic. This is my brother, Kaliningrad Oblast."

Her uncle blinked once, twice. "German Democratic Republic - that can't be true -"

"W-why?" Kaliningrad asked softly. He'd ducked his head and was peering nervously at Germany from beneath a fringe of hair.

"Because the German Democratic Republic is being dissolved," Germany said. "German reunification is expected in... October."

GDR's jaw dropped open. All the years she'd never live - the loves she'd never have - the battles she'd never fight - it was too much. Overwhelming. Her heart pounded like a war drum. She felt her knees buckle. Somehow Kaliningrad caught her before she hit the ground, and swept her up into his arms. She clung to his coat, feeling like neither Achilles nor Hector, who both died in battle gloriously, but like a little girl helplessly watching the Fates cut her life-line with their scissors.

"That's not true!" Kaliningrad cried. "She's not going to... It's not going to happen! Lithuania would've _told_ me if this were going to happen!"

"Perhaps," GDR said weakly, and Kaliningrad looked down at her. His brows knit together anxiously, and his lips were chapped from the cold. "Or perhaps Lithuania couldn't bear to tell us," she said at last.

Kaliningrad turned to Germany, imploring, "I'm sorry for what happened to Prussia! If you want a life for a life, you can have mine."

Germany stepped forward and rested his hands on Kaliningrad's shoulders. "Never think," he said very slowly and seriously, "that I would blame you for what happened to my brother, or wish that you were dead in his place. Every death is a tragedy. If I could save her, I would."

"But why-" Kaliningrad began to say, before GDR cut him off.

"Set me down, brother."

"But." Kaliningrad worried at his bottom lip.

"If I'm to die, it will be on my feet."

Kaliningrad gently lowered her to the ground, and although she swayed at first, GDR did stand again. Germany studied both their faces before saying softly, "We have so much to talk about."

* * *

><p>When the end came, she did not go peacefully or beautifully. GDR did not die laying in bed with her hair spread across the pillows, her deathly pallor somehow heightening her beauty.<p>

GDR died in degrees, in increments, over many months. Her appetite went first, wittled down to nothing, until Kaliningrad spoon-fed her and she ate more out of pity for her brother than from hunger. Her cheeks sunk in and her eyes looked too large for her pale, suffering face.

After her legs gave out and she collapsed in Germany's kitchen and hit her head on the counter, she was confined to bed. Kaliningrad would lift her in his arms and carry her down the stairs with no more difficulty than he would've had carrying a doll so that she could sit in front of the television or warm herself in the sun, and then he would carry her back up again.

Her glorious hair fell out in clumps. GDR wove some into keepsakes for her uncle and brother; Germany carefully placed his in a chest, next to his momentos of his brother, but Kaliningrad couldn't bear to keep his and secretly burned it in the fireplace.

GDR would sit in bed and write long letters, although inevitably she would tear them to shreds and discard them in frustration. It was only when her hands began to shake uncontrollably that she asked for one last sheet of paper and painstakingly wrote out a short message by hand, then sealed it in an envelope and gave it to her brother. "Please make sure it makes it to him," she said.

Kaliningrad tucked the letter addressed to _Nana_ into his coat pocket. "I promise."

Towards the end came the smell: the putrid smell of something rotting and dying from the inside out. Germany burned incense in her room to overpower the scent, but GDR was miserably aware of how disgusting she smelled.

For all that, though, she bore up like a soldier, so that one would almost think she wasn't in pain, unless one saw her as Kaliningrad did, trembling in her sleep, waking up several times a night crying out in agony.

One morning, GDR awoke shortly before dawn, the last bedraggled strands of her hair soaked with sweat. She lifted her head to see her twin kneeling at her bedside, fast asleep, his head and shoulders resting on the bed, his hand loosely holding hers. GDR pulled her hand away and stroked his hair. Kaliningrad grunted softly and looked up, blinking.

"I'm glad... you're here..."

A smile perked up his lips but then fell immediately. "Oh, no," Kaliningrad whispered, sitting up. "Don't talk like that. Don't. Please."

"It's... going to be... all right. Little brother." GDR managed a half-smile.

"No, no," he repeated. "We were born together, we should die together."

"And I thought... I was the morbid one," GDR gasped out. Willing her heart to beat just a few beats more, she caught his hand. Her skin felt clammy to the touch.

Kaliningrad's face twisted as he fought to control himself. "Aren't you afraid?" he asked.

"It's only... the unknown..." GDR said, and then her eyes stared blankly, and there was one Germany in the world.

Germany awakened to the sound of a long, low wail, and ran into GDR's room to find Kaliningrad cradling her limp body. He clutched his sister to his chest, rocking back and forth, crooning for something lost that he'd barely had to begin with.

Kaliningrad clenched his eyes shut and rocked back and forth, GDR pressed against his chest, crying into her sparse hair. He cried openly, unashamedly, until his face was red and his voice ragged. Germany sat on the edge of the bed for a long time until Kaliningrad's sobs quieted to whimpers, and then he reached over and gently pulled the boy's hands away from his sister's limp body.

Kaliningrad watched with miserable, bloodshot eyes as Germany lifted her and held her for several long moments, staring into the beautiful, cold face of Prussia's dead daughter. Her eyes stared out at him, fringed with white lashes. She weighed no more in his arms than a broken doll.

Kaliningrad swallowed, and said, "Sh-she shouldn't have died like this. She wanted to die on her feet. In battle."

Germany looked into those red eyes one last time before brushing his fingertips over her eyelids and shutting them forever.

They buried her the next day, on a hill. Afterward, Kaliningrad lingered over her tombstone, tracing her name with his fingers. Germany walked up behind him and paused, hands clasped behind his back. "Does it ever get any better?" Kaliningrad asked. "Losing your sibling forever?"

"I don't know yet myself," Germany admitted. He rested his hands on his nephew's shoulders.

Kaliningrad turned to look up to him. "There's one thing left that I have to do," he said. "Then I'm going to see Lithuania. I want to tell you - thank you. For taking us in when you did. So that she would have a place to die."

Germany choked down the lump in his throat. "It was my honor to care for my brother's children. He - I think he would've been proud of both of you."

Kaliningrad looked at the ground. "GDR was meant to be the next Prussia. I'm too Russian to ever take his place."

"There was only one Prussia," Germany told him gently. "She was GDR and you are Kaliningrad. You have a place in this world."

"Yes," Kaliningrad said, but he had a faraway look in his eyes as though he did not see Germany, or even the hill where his sister was buried, but some place else entirely. "I do."

* * *

><p>Kaliningrad awoke early the next morning and dressed to leave. He went downstairs to find Germany sitting at his kitchen table, a cup of black coffee in his hand.<p>

"Leaving already?" Germany asked.

"I have a long way to go," Kaliningrad said, buttoning up his coat. He looked out the window, where the first rays of dawn were turning the sky yellow and gray. He had miles to go, and he had to walk them alone.

Germany pushed his chair back from the table and stood stiffly. Kaliningrad could see the dark circles under his eyes, and realized that Germany hadn't slept all night; he must've stayed up, waiting for his nephew. Germany stood in front of him, and reached into his front pocket.

"I was saving this for Prussia's return," he admitted. "There was a time when this meant the world to him. I considered burying it with your sister, but now... I would like you to have it." He took Kaliningrad's hand and pressed something small and metal to his palm, then closed his fingers around it. Kaliningrad stared wonderingly into his uncle's face for a moment, then looked down and opened his hand to reveal a medal. An Iron Cross.

"It's the first one ever made," Germany told him. "Given to Prussians who fought valiantly against Napoleon."

Kaliningrad stared at Prussia's Iron Cross for several long moments, drawing shaky breaths, then said reverently, "I will treasure this all my days."

Germany helped him pin it to the inside of his coat, then walked him out the door and waved him off. They said no goodbyes; they both felt certain they would meet again.

The going was hard, and Kaliningrad concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to keep his mind blank. Every so often, an image would come to mind, of GDR as she was before she died, or a memory of Lithuania's gentle hands, and his face would contort, and he would have to sit by the side of the road and wipe hot tears from his cheeks before he could go on. Several times he had to open his coat and look at the Iron Cross, to reassure himself that it was real, and really his.

He came upon Russia's house to find the door swinging open, creaking to and fro with the wind. Kaliningrad peered into the gloom hesitantly, then took one step inside, and then another. Russia's house was empty, empty, empty. He might've thought it was abandoned if he didn't know Russia as well as he did. Even his sisters, Ukraine and Belarus, had gone. The Baltics had long since left, taking everything that belonged to them and leaving everything that belonged to Russia.

The kitchen cupboards were bare.

Russia's office was unlocked, and strewn with crumpled bits of papers and newspapers with panicky headlines in Cyrillic.

Nowhere did a soul breathe save for Kaliningrad himself. Finally, steeling himself, he began to climb the stairs towards the room Russia had shared with GDR.

The door's rusty hinge squeaked as he pushed it open. Kaliningrad's jaw fell open as he took in the sight of the once-immaculate bedchambers. Bookshelves were overturned, and torn pages lay in sad heaps on the floor. GDR's beautiful wooden bed had been smashed nearly into kindling. The velvet curtain that had shrouded Prussia's portrait was in tatters, and the portrait itself was shredded, as though Russia had attacked it with his fingernails.

The door slammed behind him, and Kaliningrad nearly leapt out of his shoes in fright.

"So you came back," slurred Russia.

"Hello, Russia," Kaliningrad said in a low voice.

Russia put one heavy boot in front of the other, and instinctively Kaliningrad stepped back, until his back was against the wall and there was nowhere to go. Russia loomed over him and said through clenched teeth, "There is nothing here for you. There never was." His breath smelled strongly of vodka.

Kaliningrad cleared his throat softly, and held up the envelope with _Nana_ written across it. Russia stared at it, uncomprehending. "She asked me to give this to you," Kaliningrad told him. "It was her last request."

Russia snatched it from Kaliningrad's hands, but he did not tear into it, not then. He clutched the envelope to his chest, his paws crumping the paper. Over Russia's shoulder, Kaliningrad could see Prussia's tattered portrait staring at him, as though beseeching him to be careful.

"We buried her in Berlin, under the name Anya Beilschmidt," Kaliningrad whispered. Russia looked up at him with wild eyes, his pupils shrunk to little pinpricks. "If you wish to come visit her, I will tell you how. She would've wanted you to come."

Russia snarled at him, and Kaliningrad braced himself for a blow that did not come. He hated himself a little for flinching before Russia; he did not want to look weak to his father. But Russia's snarl turned into a rasping, mocking laugh. "Such a good brother, faithful like a dog," he said. "There is nothing of Prussia in _you_. Did you know he died cursing you? Did Lithuania tell you that?" His taunts were childishly cruel, his drunkenness making him wild. "He died cursing you for killing him."

Kaliningrad looked into Russia's face and saw the brittleness in him, the endless cold and the desperation slowly soured into malice. He wondered if Russia had perhaps in his own way loved Prussia, wondered if he mourned him still. _Do you blame me for killing him?_ Kaliningrad wanted to ask him. _Or do you blame yourself?_ And then there was Lithuania, who could love a little boy with Russia's eyes but not Russia himself.

Kaliningrad laid his hands over his heart, closed his eyes and said, "I have been loved from the moment of my birth."

After a moment he opened his eyes to see Russia _shatter_. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, holding GDR's letter like a shield. Russia crumpled in on himself, shaking with barely silenced sobs, like a man who's life work was a house of cards that toppled over in moments.

Kaliningrad stepped around him and left the room. He did not feel he was wanted there. Instead, he went down the corridor to his old room, the room he had shared with Lithuania since he was minutes old. Unlike the rest of the house, it was untouched by Russia's rampage. Lithuania had left the bed neatly made, and the dresser held nothing but the work clothing Russia had made him wear. Even Kaliningrad's few toys from his childhood were gone, carefully packed in a suitcase and taken far, far away. Kaliningrad took one last lingering look at the little room with its four walls, before shutting the door and locking it behind him as he left.

Russia blocked the hallway. Kaliningrad watched him as he approached, slowly, almost hesitantly, as though afraid Kaliningrad would flinch away from him. When they were an arm's length apart, Russia reached into his coat and produced a small book. "Take it," he said gruffly. His skin was deathly pale and his eyes were red-rimmed and bleak. "She wanted you to have this."

Kaliningrad took the book from him. Turning it over, he found the cover to be the familiar _Treasure Island_ book GDR had given him all these years ago, carefully preserved and treasured. He traced the embossed letters on the cover with his fingertips as he said, "Thank you."

"How did she die?" Russia asked in a hush. He would not meet Kaliningrad's eyes.

"With her eyes open," Kaliningrad told him. "Unafraid. Facing death like a soldier."

Russia went downstairs first, followed by Kaliningrad. He watched as Russia sat at the kitchen table, laid a crumpled letter beside him, and laid his head in his arms. Kaliningrad walked past him, GDR's book in hand, and peered at the letter, wanting to see his sister's final words to their father.

In the shaky, giant lettering of a dying girl was written one sentence, _DO THIS FOR ME._

Kaliningrad sobbed aloud, balling a fist into his mouth to muffle the sound. The thought that - GDR in her last days had - begged their father to - come to some reconciliation with _him_ - hot tears spilled from his eyes, and he ran from the house, ran out the still open front door, ran and ran and left Russia behind, ran until his lungs burned and he could scream out his pain to the night's sky.

There could be centuries, millenia left for Kaliningrad. His sister had had a few scant months.

He trudged the rest of the way to Lithuania's house. He was on it almost without noticing, and when he knocked on the door it was wrenched open instantly. "Oh, God," Lithuania moaned when he saw Kaliningrad. "Oh, Fricu."

Kaliningrad collapsed into his arms, even as Poland ran towards them, shouting both their names.

Kaliningrad's fate would be forever tied to the two fathers he had never known - one taken by death, one by madness. But, perhaps, there could be dignity in this life, and healing, and even joy. His sister would've wanted no less for them.

They all deserved no less.


End file.
